


A certain knot of peace: outtakes

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: A certain knot of peace [5]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Humor, M/M, Outtakes, Tiptoeing towards Silverflinthamilton, Treasure Island who?, snippetfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-18 04:17:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14204880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: Flint considered what to say. “You told me once you saw what I saw, a world where there was nothing left to lose.” He watched a white moth fluttering at the top of the window nearest the bed. “I might have said you were right, that day in the forest.” He felt Silver’s gaze like it had a measurable weight and kept his eyes on the moth. “Only it wasn’t true. Even if you had been lying about Thomas.”A collection of outtakes/even more snippety snips set inthis verse, which have been posted on tumblr as randomly as humanly possible. (Thanks, brain.)





	A certain knot of peace: outtakes

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, black sails fandom, for making the last 12 months infinitely better. *mwa*

###### silverflint/flinthamilton (orig. posted [tumblr 2 April 2018](http://twofrontteethstillcrooked.tumblr.com/post/172537150941/we-did-this-backwards-silver-said-a-wee))

Everything went too quickly, too slowly. At one point, Flint imagined trying to tell the story of it to Thomas and Thomas sighing with embarrassment on Flint’s behalf, if also charmed and possibly even ready to discuss how Flint might pursue the next encounter. Madi: would not be surprised at what had happened in her bed. Would probably also not match Thomas’s enthusiasm. She wasn’t due back for a week or longer, but Flint decided it was best not to think about her for the time being anyway.

“We did this backwards,” Silver said.

For several minutes, after he'd been able to move, Flint had been idly stroking a long vein scored down Silver’s arm, while Silver raked his fingers through Flint’s hair. Flint lifted his head off Silver’s chest and hoped his expression hid any confusion. “I.” He scratched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not talking about.” He waved a hand.

“No,” Silver said, pushing a strand of Flint’s hair away from his eye. “Well. Not the act itself.”

Flint kissed the underside of his chin. “Acts.”

“Right.”

Flint shifted off Silver to lie on his side and brought Silver with him. Silver’s hand on Flint’s bare hip was as warm as a brand.

“I think. I am pretty sure.” Silver took a breath. “I should have apologized, first.”

Before we fell into bed? Flint thought. The morning sun had long since vanished into fog, leaving the narrow bedroom in shadow.

Flint considered what to say. “You told me once you saw what I saw, a world where there was nothing left to lose.” He watched a white moth fluttering at the top of the window nearest the bed. “I might have said you were right, that day in the forest.” He felt Silver’s gaze like it had a measurable weight and kept his eyes on the moth. “Only it wasn’t true. Even if you had been lying about Thomas.”

“What do you mean?” Silver asked.

“I think there is reality as one perceives it at the moment it is supposedly invoked, and there is the actual truth. And here is the difficulty. Then, in the forest: perhaps I would have agreed with you. My rage was as loyal a companion as I have ever known; it blinded me to many things yet I pretended, at various times with or without acknowledging the subterfuge, I could still see clearly. Whatever could have come as a result of the war, I had already forfeited my life. I might have claimed my own losses could not be multiplied, and therefore war could not harm me.”

Silver watched him without moving, without seeming to breathe.

Flint’s eyes prickled with tears. “It would have been a lie, because you could have died.” He finally let himself look at Silver again. Silver looked back without recoiling; his chin trembled and eyes burned.

“I should’ve, rightfully, had a hundred nightmares about the men I put in the ground,” Silver said in a voice thick with tears that he was pretending was not thick with tears. “Stabbed, shot, cut down – few innocents among them, but. Dead because I made it so. Dufresne at least, if no one else. Would be only fair, if fair were how it worked, to have suffered a nightmare or two. What a long litany of horrors to choose from.”

For just a moment, Flint glimpsed the way Silver had woven tales for the crew, the way he tempered his voice to precisely the right timbre and turn of phrase, and depending upon what Silver had wanted them to feel the words ripened or rotted like fruit. It was more than skilled. It was a type of power Flint had envied and feared. But Silver’s expression was agonized.

“I suppose there have been plenty of nightmares, if I tell you true, remembered or not,” he said. “Madi lying dead in the carcass of your old house, burnt unrecognizable. The axe falling, or the saw in Howell’s grip. Muldoon trapped as the water’s rising and I too weak to free him or do anything but watch.

"You,” he said to Flint more softly. “Sinking far beneath the waves. Your throat slit during a raid. You slashed and broken among island tree roots; you felled at the entrance to a cave crawling with maggots and bats.” He smiled a brief sad smile. “Maybe it’s fitting. I killed you, after all.”

No, you didn’t, Flint wanted to say; you may have tried, but you didn’t; I’m here because you returned my life to me, more than once. It didn’t seem like the right time to interrupt. He gentled his fingers through Silver’s hair and waited.

Silver watched him as if for permission to continue. “I must admit, there was something – it was starting to wear me down a bit. Some mornings, I would rise feeling as though I’d slept again on the ship, in one of those damn smelly hammocks. Or like I’d drank a case of rum when I hadn’t had a sip in a week.”

Flint leaned slightly into Silver’s hand while Silver traced his right eyebrow with his thumb.

“I finally caught it, that dream,” Silver said. “The first night after Madi had left; wind at three o'clock in the morning startled me right out of sleep. That’s when I saw there in the darkness the whole of it.”

He had Flint’s full attention.

“You and I stand at the rail on the wet deck,” Silver said. “Behind us the crew works, unceasing. The air smells like seaweed, gunpowder, smoke from who knows what. We’re cutting through choppy waters, headed north, north east. Sails on the horizon.”

Flint could picture the setting with such clarity it seemed almost as if Silver had spellbound it into existence, pulled in an ocean to cover the bedroom floor, knitted the bones of all those dead men, their men, back together to run ropes and pack cannons. Silver in a long blue coat, pressed at Flint’s side, solid, constant, almost as near as they were now lying together in the tiny bed.

Silver said, “We’re not talking, because we don’t need to. We both know what will happen soon, and it doesn’t matter; we are of one mind.”

His voice had grown softer. Flint felt each word in his own throat like stones.

“Night after night after night. Watching that ship come closer. You and I, shoulder to shoulder,” Silver said, his voice quieting until it was so low Flint strained to hear. Silver traced Flint’s eyebrow again, traced the line of Flint’s jaw. “I lied to you, that time I said Madi was my only weakness. But I lied to myself too, didn’t I?” A ruinous sorrow shone in his eyes.

What haunted you was not the dream, Flint thought, but the waking; and it was nearly too painful, too _astonishing_ a thought to be endured. He rubbed his thumb across Silver’s lower lip, felt the shiver that laced through Silver just before he kissed him, Silver’s mouth soft and warm as he let Flint slip inside. Flint pulled Silver’s leg over his hip, deepened the kiss, tightened his fingers in Silver’s hair, discovered again how easily his body and Silver’s fit together. Friction, heat, breath, another beginning; something sacrosanct, something splintered made whole.

~

As it happened, he could find no words later when he arrived back at the inn. Thomas opened the door, took one look at Flint’s face, ushered him in fast, and wrapped him in an embrace when the heavy door was firmly bolted; Flint could feel him exhale with relief as he pressed his face to Flint’s hair. They undressed each other, Thomas skimming fingertips over those lightest of bruises Silver had left on Flint’s shoulders, his hips and lower back. Flint should have been exhausted but sleep was a ways off still, and he made no complaint.

When they did finally rest, curled around each other, Thomas said, “So. Your day seems to have been productive. Does Mr. Silver know of any rooms to let here in town?”

Flint smiled, and kissed him again.

~

###### silverflint/madisilver/flinthamilton (orig. posted [tumblr 27 March 2018](http://twofrontteethstillcrooked.tumblr.com/post/172328493656/flint-felt-as-though-he-were-seeing-across-some))

“There are times when he’s telling a story and there is that particular glint in his eye because he knows he has them enraptured, and I see a ghost. Who I believed he was, before; who I believed he’d be; who I thought I was, and would be, with him.” Madi stared at the ale left in her mug. “Other times, all I see is what it has cost me and my people, so many like us, and you, to have once listened to those stories of his. It is more complicated than that; his was not the only betrayal. But.”

She looked up to watch Flint. “And now you are here. I will confess I didn’t know whether or not to believe you would actually seek him out, nor what form any.” She paused to consider her next words. “What form reconciliation might take.”

He hesitated. “Do you need me – us–” He nodded his head toward Thomas. “–To leave?”

If she said yes, he didn’t know that he’d be able to comply. He worked to keep the fear of her answer off his face.

She studied him, like she saw the effort. “No.”

She didn’t sound convinced of her own decision, but her eyes had softened.

“I am happy you are well, that you are alive. Safe. Pleased, even, to meet your Mr. Hamilton, who is similarly alive and safe and well. It is only.” She looked away. “I see you and am reminded of what my people could have had.” She exhaled. “What all of us might have had, together. Myself, and John, and you.”

Flint felt as though he were seeing across some gossamer mist, a great green expanse, where another version of himself lived, where the scent of salt carried far inland. Crops, livestock, shelter. He was walking towards his family – the word, formed in his mind so easily, meant Silver, meant Madi – who waited for him in the little camp he knew lay just around the curve of the hill rising in front of him.

That place did not exist in the present. Its path had been crowded with tumbled boulders too craggy and tall to circumvent.

And yet, despite everything, yes, he was here. Madi was here, within reach.

“What he chose,” she said. “It was not done for me. That is what I have learned. A lesson I am not yet wholly reconciled to.”

“He loved you. He loves you,” Flint said, a part of him, some ways off, marveling at how quickly he was jumping to explain Silver’s actions. (And another part… Knowing better than to marvel.)

Thomas remained silent. Where his fingers gripped the mug in front of him his knuckles were sheer white.

“Yes, I know,” Madi said. “I know. But he knew I would die to see the war done. And he knew you would give up the war to have Thomas again.”

It was a rebuke Flint had to bear, though it was more difficult than he’d expected not to recoil from the sting.

“I think he ran out of time, in his estimation anyway, and in desperation guessed, regardless of whether we would ever forgive him. Above all else he wanted you to survive,” he said.

“Considering his state of mind over those last weeks, had I been his sole concern,” Madi said, “you would not be alive to defend him.”

Flint took a moment to consider what he would say next. “He did send our best men to kill me.”

Madi’s mouth twitched.

“Poor lamb,” Thomas said, patting Flint’s hand.

“Hey,” Flint said.

Madi exhaled, half-smiled as she looked up at the ceiling. “Do you forgive him?”

“Yes.” Flint knew the question was about more than what Silver had sent the crew to do. A year ago Flint might have hesitated before the admission; he was not willing to lie now. “Do you?”

“Some days,” Madi said.

“You still love him.”

“Yes.”

“He still loves you.”

“Yes.” She tipped her head. “He still loves you, too. And you still love him.”

“Yes,” Flint said, ready to pay whatever price she might demand in exchange for this truth, “I do.”

He did not look away, nor did she. She nodded, after a pause. Her gaze shifted to Thomas.

“Don’t look at me,” Thomas said. “I’m fond of Mr. Silver, but–”

“Do not fool yourself, Mr. Hamilton,” Madi said. Her tone was tinged with enough humor to make the hairs on Flint’s arms bristle. “If you stay long enough, you will be taken in by him completely, same as we were.”

Carefully, Thomas said, “It does not sound like so bad a fate, in the end.”

After another long moment, where Madi looked at Flint and Flint felt that look knock against his very bones, Madi said, “No. It isn’t.”

“‘We live, not as we wish to, but as we can,’” Thomas quoted.

Madi let Flint go to pin Thomas with a look. “It is a wise observation, but did Menander really say that? It is sometimes hard to tell with these remnants of larger texts mostly lost to antiquity.”

Watching her cleverness soaking into Thomas like sunlight, Flint took a drink of ale to maintain his sanity. Thomas opened his mouth to respond to her, but stopped short as the door creaked open.

Silver came in, taking the high step into the kitchen on his crutch with no discernible gap in his gait. He had a bag under one arm, his crutch under the other, and was paying no mind to any of them. The held-breath silence of the room made him look up from shifting the lumpy bag around. At the sight of Madi his expression transformed from mild annoyance to sheer bliss, and Flint was glad to feel within himself a lack of jealousy on the matter.

“Hello,” Silver said to her, “you’re back,” and he grinned like he knew he was pointing out the obvious and didn’t care.

Madi rose from her chair, regal as ever, to take his hand. “For a few days,” she said to him, her other hand on his cheek as their lips met.

They kissed, Flint realized, the way Thomas and Miranda had sometimes kissed, in a way meant only for them that somehow also seemed like an invitation. Thomas, for his part, was doing a fine job of not beaming at anyone. 

Madi pulled away; Silver cleared his throat.

“Shall I make dinner then?” he asked of no-one in particular.

“We can help,” Thomas said diplomatically, standing to clear away the mugs. No-one mentioned yesterday’s incident with the mutton.

Madi moved to assist Thomas. Thomas squeezed Flint’s shoulder as he passed and joined Madi by the baskets on the counter. They began to pick over the carrots and onions, as if old friends used to conspiring in the kitchen. Madi glanced over at Flint for a second. She is still my family, he thought, returning her small smile with his own – a truce, a penance – and felt the slightest bit lighter for believing, in that moment, she might one day feel the same.

He too might someday be forgiven.

Silver started to shrug out of his coat. Flint stood to help him. Silver turned, freed, and almost bumped into Flint in the process. Something about Silver’s expression – the uncertainty, the hopefulness – as he looked up at Flint crushed and buoyed Flint all in the same breath.

“Welcome home,” he said, tightening his hands on Silver’s waist to steady himself and Silver both.

~

###### silverflint/flinthamilton (orig. posted [tumblr 28 March 2018](http://twofrontteethstillcrooked.tumblr.com/post/172360311110/may-i-help-you-flint-whispered-your-cupidity))

Despite having improved as a cook, Silver still stirred soup like someone baffled: why was it boiling, when should he stop stirring, how did he arrive in this place by this kettle of beef, grated bread, spices and, as the recipe required, Raisins of the Sun?

(“Are there raisins of the moon?” Silver had asked once, and Flint had wanted to gather him up and kiss him out of sheer affection for how genuinely confounded he’d sounded.)

Flint didn’t want to take over since all in all the soup smelled fair and truth be told he was feeling lazy, and besides which, it was Silver’s turn to cook; on such days everyone, which meant Flint and Thomas, had agreed not to request anything too complicated or, indeed, to set their standards too high. Flint stayed seated at the table, tried to focus on his book, and only occasionally glanced over to where Silver was frowning at dinner in progress.

Thomas wiggled his chair over so that his arm was touching Flint’s; he put his bare right foot atop Flint’s and pressed down.

“May I help you?” Flint whispered.

“Your cupidity is showing,” Thomas whispered back.

“No, no,” Flint insisted. “I’m supervising surreptitiously.”

“Apologies breakfast left you famished.” Thomas arched a coy eyebrow. “I shall try harder next time.”

Flint felt any emphasis on any of those words was surely coincidental, ergo not worth commenting on.

“Should we tell him the steam from the soup is making his hair…do that, or does he know?” Thomas wondered.

“He knows,” Flint said. Without his express permission his eyes went to the base of Silver’s throat, where Silver was perspiring a little, enough to catch the light from the fire.

It made Flint think of the marooners’ island suddenly, and of himself on the beach beside Silver as Silver washed his leg. The taste of shark blood had hardly left Flint’s mouth then; he’d drunk water from the island stream like an animal on hands and knees and was barely sated. He was spare like he’d been in his earliest navy days and felt brittle, washed and new in the sunlight. He had sat down too near. Silver had lost weight too – not even to mention the leg – and Flint imagined circling those lithe wrists with his own chapped hands. Some voice in his head told him to move away and he did not listen to the voice at all. Silver spoke of the pardons and what those might portend; Flint leaned closer, rapt, and a strange calmness rippled through him clear as the water from the stream.

I already knew, Flint thought, what you were going to become to me.

(And if it was selective, his memory, and in this moment he chose to leave out all that had brought them to that island, and most of what came roaring in its wake, well. That was the privilege of an unworthy man who had learned not to push his luck.)

“You’re staring again,” Thomas whispered in his ear, causing Flint to jump.

“Supervising,” Flint hissed.

“Have either of you ever looked up the word whisper?” Silver asked, before whacking his wooden spoon against the kettle. “Until you have mastered the actual definition you will, I fear, continue to do it incorrectly. Also, I’m, like, two feet away.”

Thomas grinned at him like a complete shit. Flint just stifled a groan and closed his book.

~

###### silverflint/flinthamilton (orig. posted [tumblr 15 March 2018](http://twofrontteethstillcrooked.tumblr.com/post/171916698731/this-thing-where-you-manhandle-me-needs-to-stop))

Silver had been dreaming: salt, pecking seagulls. He followed Madi down into the ship’s caverns and she disappeared. In the cabin Flint lolled in a hammock while Thomas unrolled a map across the desk. They were rehashing part of the dinner conversation, about when the parish might place a new direction stone, and Flint pointed to Silver to say, ‘He has a way with eels.’

“How can you be sleeping at a time like this?” Thomas asked, and the only reason Silver heard him ask was because Thomas had thrown open the bedroom door a split second before speaking.

A sliver of moon was visible through the window. Not a dream. “It’s night,” was all Silver could come up with as a response. He tried to grab back the blanket.

Thomas, being nine thousand times more awake, was too fast. “Here,” he said, proffering forth Silver’s crutch in exchange. “Come on then.”

Until this second Silver had never thought about punching, or even pinching, Thomas; he’d rarely even been annoyed by Thomas, which was, in hindsight, astounding, because Thomas obviously had the means to be a hugely annoying person. Silver thought about fisticuffs now. He was, as ever, disadvantaged by being shorter than Thomas – though most were shorter than Thomas, and Silver was shorter than many – and possessed of fewer limbs. The element of surprise, of being underestimated, had worked to Silver’s advantage before, and might work again.

Maybe he could seduce him, and afterwards sleep the deep rejuvenating sleep of the well satiated.

Silver took a deep breath. That. Hmm. Was not a cliff he ought to be considering flinging himself off just yet, never mind that Thomas, disheveled and warm in a nightshirt, was prying him off the mattress into a standing position.

“This thing where you manhandle me needs to stop,” Silver said sternly.

“Of course, Mr. Silver,” Thomas said. “Your cooperation in this matter is appreciated.”

“What matter? What’s going on?”

Thomas stepped away upon checking Silver could in fact stay upright with the crutch. “Just. Come next door.”

He strode from the room like a person accustomed to being followed. Silver wanted to resent that, except… Now he was sort of curious. The floorboards were icy through his sock and stepping outside to go from his own door to Flint and Thomas’s was painful like Silver had belly-flopped onto an ocean. The little kitchen was empty and dark, and Silver arrived in Flint and Thomas’s barely lit bedroom having given up on the idea that perhaps a dazzling sight would great him (Madi, or a treasure chest riven open with jewels, or even just a jar on the mantel labeled “Lord Hamilton’s Good Sense”).

Flint lay in the middle of the mattress, curled on his right side away from the bedroom door. He was trembling. That Silver could somehow see he was trembling– Silver felt glued to the floor, like seawater was rising around him. His crutch bit into his palm. Thomas pushed back the quilt to take his place in bed to Flint’s right. He tipped his head at Silver and pulled a face like, Why are you just standing there?

Silver made his way to the bed, and climbed in to align himself along Flint’s back, tucking his knees up behind Flint’s. When he ran his arm around Flint’s waist Flint grabbed his hand possessively. Silver breathed in the soap scent of Flint’s damp hair and neck – a bath had been had, it seemed – and Flint pressed back against him. They were like spoons stacked in a fancy nef. (Aptly, the one old nef Silver had ever been in the presence of was shaped like an English galleon, worked in gold atop a beckoning mermaid. Thomas had probably owned seven. Nefs, not mermaids.) (Though Thomas having once owned a mermaid seemed…oddly plausible.) Silver couldn’t see much in such low light, in such a position, but he could feel Flint sigh as if now everything was fine, and a last tremor left Flint as he began to stroke his thumb into Silver’s palm, like he knew it was sore.

You are truly unbelievable, Silver wanted to say to him. Since he couldn’t figure out how to in a way that would convey the exact best tone – namely, that Flint was a horrible melodramatic faker and also that Thomas was a co-conspirator of the foulest sort – Silver kept his mouth shut. He let his arm relax. Flint felt right under his hold; like he fit, or like Silver fit, molded to his back, like it made any sort of sense that this was where and how Silver was meant to be sleeping. It didn’t help, or it helped more than Silver could comprehend.

Thomas chose that moment to reach across Flint to pat Silver on the head before putting that hand somewhere on Flint in a way that seemed mutually beneficial. Silver wouldn’t think of denying Flint and Thomas their intimacies, but being _patted on the head_ was intolerable. Silver swung to plotting a little revenge inside his skull. In the morning he could over-boil Thomas’s egg. He could stand on a kitchen chair and jump Thomas as he passed by. On. Jump _on_. He could–

“Please stop scheming so loudly, Mr. Silver.”

“Stop telling me what to do, Mr. Hamilton.”

Flint made a noise like he was stifling a laugh. Treacherous villains, the both of them.

~

'He misses you,’ the letter said, 'though he says nothing of it.’

Madi had written hastily, Silver could tell; her words had a sharper slant than when she wrote with leisure. There was a small tear near the bottom, and a water stain shaped like a sheep. On the back Thomas had sometime started what appeared to be either a market list or recipe: 2 eggs, flour, turnips. The date at the top proved the letter was eight months old, give or take a week, and the wrinkled, fraying page had been folded into a variety of shapes in that time. Had been read, and reread, and kept, despite its decay.

'He will not look for you. You must go to him.’

It was, Silver thought, as if Madi had seen everything he’d labored to keep hidden: he’d stopped going to the hill. He contributed to the common good, helping around the camp, cooking meals with improving if usually improvised skill, making jokes with children, chatting with elders and mothers about topics ranging from weather to war to the best ways to remove candle wax from cloth. He and Madi had achieved some kind of marital accord; she hadn’t tied him to the bed while he slumbered and bludgeoned him to death with a heavy pan. She loved him, he loved her, their life together wasn’t a lie.

It just hadn’t been the whole truth. Silver used to think a half-truth was better than none, and occasionally even preferable, and through his own transgressions had been violently disabused of the notion ever since.

Flint gave a soft, questioning hum, his eyelids twitching. He moved his forehead against Silver’s leg and his hand opened and closed, as if he’d caught and was holding close whatever he reached for in the dream. Silver pulled the blanket up to his shoulder, and Flint frowned. Silver smiled. Trust Flint to be grouchy about more blanket though snow was throwing itself against the house and the bedroom fire was burning ever lower.

In the kitchen Thomas was chunking ice out of the water bucket for tea. After one crack Flint huffed as if the commotion were disrupting all his dream-self’s adventures. In a roughened voice he said, “Why aren’t you under the covers?”

“I need to be up soon,” Silver said.

Flint huffed again and went back to sleep.

Silver slipped the letter back between the fourth and fifth days of the old copy of _The Decameron_ Flint had, it seemed, been reading. Left under Flint’s pillow, Silver supposed, it had migrated – a corner poking Silver in the eye had been what roused him this time. (To the book’s credit, its interruptions were less boisterous than Thomas’s.) He put the tome on the tiny bedside table and slid down into the blankets. Flint stirred to throw an arm over him and press his face against Silver’s sternum, as if to insist on being embraced. Silver listened to Thomas rattling the tea kettle and felt guilty for possibly as many as five seconds. Flint tightened his hold.

I used to wake missing you so much I did not think I could bear it, Silver thought, pressing his face to Flint’s hair. And then I did bear it; and that was worse.

He was about to give a mawkish sort of sigh when Thomas came in and put his frozen-corpse fingers on the back of Silver’s neck.

“Good morning,” Thomas said, cheerfully evil, after Silver yelped.

“Why,” Flint said blearily, as Silver tried to haul Thomas down onto the bed.

Outside a rock dove tapped at the windowsill, a peevish and judgmental bit of commentary if ever Silver had heard any.

**Author's Note:**

> as i said on tumblr, what if i wrote 90 more scenes of people falling asleep? WHAT IF.
> 
> p.s. shout out to [clenster](http://clenster.tumblr.com) who, again, was super nice about not laughing to my face when i told her i did not think i would ever ship silverflint haha ha aha that was sure a funny joke i made way back then (whelp)


End file.
